Encounters With Darkness
by Lotesse
Summary: Had Aragorn met with the Ringwraiths before the Quest? His actions in the Prancing Pony would suggest it to be so. A young man, having just learned of his identity, sits alone in the mountains waiting for a wizard. Soon, he will be plunged into the realm


Encounters of Darkness: Of Aragorn Son of Arathorn and the Nine Ringwraiths

By Lótessë

Author's Note: This story was inspired by a thread on the White Council Messageboard of Tolkien Online begun by Nili. Thank you so much for posting these wonderful topics, Nili! _Anar caluva tielyanna oio tennoio!_

"The hobbits looked at him, and saw...that his face was drawn as if with pain...For a while he sat with unseeing eyes as if walking in distant memories..."

The Fellowship of the Ring

One dark night in Aragorn's youth, before his great journeys into lands where the stars were strange, he was encamped in a small dell within the peaks of the Misty Mountains, the Hithaeglir. And he was worried. Gandalf had not come as he had promised, although the young Ranger had waited there for two days now. As his fire burned low, he moved off to a thicket of twisted, stunted trees to cut a few more good logs. The fire must be kept going: Gandalf had taught him well, and he knew that fire was protection against the many evil things that sometimes lurked in the darkness. Suddenly, an icy cold stole over his heart and body, and he shivered, half because of the chill, and half because of the fear stealing over him. Strange thoughts chased one another through his mind. What if Gandalf had betrayed him? What if this was a trap? Should he run, flee back to the safety of Rivendell? Ever since Elrond had told him who he was, he had carried a vague fear in his heart, the fear of this happening. Why did he have to have been born the mortal that the Dark Lord most wanted to dispose of? Life would have been so much simpler if he could have remained Estel. 

With a shake of his head, as if to rid himself of these troubled reflections, he hurried back to the campfire. It was out. The neat pit where he had lit it was filled with stone-cold ashes, as though there had not been flames there for weeks. He looked up, panicked, and a black shape stood there. Spinning around, Aragorn realized that he was surrounded. He raised his knife defiantly. Let them take him, if they could! The first advanced, and he whiled his blade in a downward stroke so swiftly that it looked like one long, sliver blur. The Ringwraith spun away, crouching under Aragorn's whistling blade. He turned faster than sight and swung mightily at the foeman who had been creeping up behind him. This time his blade connected! Then Aragorn gasped. His knife was smoking as it was consumed. He was left holding the dully-shining hilt. He spun around, looking from one enemy to another, as they tightened their ring around him, but then the hilt of a sword came down on his head, and he knew no more. 

At the same time, a weather-beaten figure hurried into the Great Hall of Rivendell. It was Gandalf, looking bedraggled and care-worn. His long cloak was rent in many places. At the sight of him, Master Elrond, his long friend, rose in consternation. "What has happened, my friend, that you come in such haste?" 

Gandalf looked up at him wearily. "The Nazgul have captured Aragorn," he said heavily. "There was nothing I could do. Two of them set upon me, and one was the Witch-king himself. At first this mystified me. But when I found his camp, empty, cold, I knew. By the signs, the lad put up a brave fight, but against seven Ringwraiths he had no chance. If they find out who he is..."

Elrond's face showed such rage that even Gandalf was taken aback. In a thunderous voice he cried, "Elves of Rivendell! Our greatest hope, the child we have all loved, the youth we have taught, has been taken by our foes. Who now will go forth to seek him?" 

At that Glorfindel stood. "That will I do, Master Elrond. My heart grows hot to think of him subjected to the torments of the Ulairi. A host I will raise and be gone ere the morrow."

At the first light of dawn the Elves set out. Gandalf rode beside Glorfindel, guiding him to the glade where Aragorn had apparently been taken. They both rode with bowed heads and worried features, for the hopes of many rested on Aragorn, and if the Nazgul discovered his identity he would have no hope. The Dark Lord must not learn that an Heir of Isildur still lived! As they rode into the deserted camp, dark clouds blotted out the sun and a chill stuck at their hearts. But the Eldar remained undaunted, concentrating on the task ahead of them. Glorfindel had brought the best hunters of Imladris with him, but alas! Elladan and Elrohir were far abroad, roaming whither Elrond knew not. Using all of his skill, Glorfindel finally located the trail of the Nine. Closely examining every blade of grass the hunters moved along the path of their quarry. As night fell, Gandalf raised his staff and with a word, _síla!_, a light was ignited at the top of it, as if a star had alighted on top of the Wizard's rod. And so they went on.

As the night grew older a deathly cold had begun seeping into the hearts of the hunters, so slowly that none noticed for a great while. As he realized this, Glorfindel's visage broke into a grim smile, for he knew this to be a sign that the Nine were close by. He drew his sword, and it glittered as if burning with cold flames.

As a clear space opened before them, the Ringwraiths struck! Not since the fall of Arnor had there been such an attack! Gandalf's staff sprang into life and light, blazing with a fierce and beautiful radiance that illuminated all the glade. As the Elves lighted flaming brands, Glorfindel fought his way through to the side of the Wizard. "Gandalf," he said in a low voice, "we ought to find Aragorn before this battle begins in earnest. Can you draw the wraiths away form here?"

After a muttered council, the Elves' plan was completed. The light of Gandalf's rod was darkened. Then, sweeping brands in front of them, the Elven-warriors sprang forth from the shadows, calling out the name of Elbereth in clear, strong voices. The Nazgul fell back from this onslaught, the hated name ringing in their ears, driving them mad. The Elves came forward to engage them, and the torchlight glinted on the many raised swords like lightning. And then the battle was joined!

Though the fire, the smoke, the shouts, and the chaos, two figures slipped unnoticed back to the clearing where the Nazgul had first been seen. Gandalf and Glorfindel, for it was they, began their search. Nearly frantic with anxiety they left no stone unturned. And then Glorfindel gave a glad shout. Gandalf raised his staff high above his head, and its pale light showed them the haggard countenance of Aragorn son of Arathorn.

He was bound hand and foot, lying on the cold ground, unconscious. His shirt was in slashed tatters, and beneath it they could see the weals of a whip. He was bleeding from a ragged cut on his forehead. With a cry of rage Glorfindel raised his bright knife, and it shredded the knotted cords like bad dreams. Aragorn fell forward onto his shoulder. With a look at the Wizard, Glorfindel lifted the limp body of his young friend on to his horse, then led the good beast into the denser woods, out of sight and danger. Then, with a warcry, "_A tíro nín, Fanuilos!"_ he flung himself into the fray. His sword was everywhere, thrusting and parrying with a supernatural speed. He was taking his revenge on those who had hurt the young man. Daunted by the ferocity of this new attacker, the Nine gave way before him, gaining the Elves a brief respite. Then Glorfindel raised up his voice, crying above the clash of sword and the cries of battle," _A Eldalië_! We have done what we came to do. Let us go now!" And with a speed that could scarcely be believed they all vanished, leaving the clearing deserted by all but the wraiths.

They rode swiftly back to Rivendell. The Elves returned triumphant, Glorfindel carrying Aragorn before him. Elrond came hurrying out to meet them; his face lined with anxiety. He caught sight of Aragorn's still form, and ran to him with a cry. Gravely, Gandalf explained the events of the previous night to Elrond, and the worry line that furrowed his brow deepened. For many long days and sleepless nights Elrond tended the Ranger that he loved as his own child, healing his battered body and his beleaguered mind. At last, a fair morning dawned. The sun shone bright into the valley. And as the warm rays fell upon his face, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chief of the Rangers of the North, Heir of Isildur opened his eyes.

"Elrond!" He sat up with a cry. "O Elrond!" And then he wept. 

***

I am not entirely sure if I am going to leave it there, or if there are more chapters to come. I've not worked on this for some time, but inspiration can strike at any moment. 


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